Sleepless Mondays
by GLITTERXGURL
Summary: It had been a sleepless Monday when she stayed over. When she'd fallen asleep next to him, her breathing even, chest moving up and down steadily, he'd just watched her. Just laid there all night and watched her. But he'd never admit that.


The bed's still unmade, sheets crumpled and in desperate need of straightening. The drapes are only half-open, or half-closed, depending on what mood he's in. Still none of it matters because the only thing that matters right now is the bottle of tequila, more than half-empty, less than half-full, that's open on the sideboard.

His throat's burning, eyes burning, lips numb from the liquid, and yet none of it's enough to block her out, because, maybe, nothing ever will.

Last time she'd been in here, last time she'd licked her lips, his heart had hammered and then nothing had been the same again. It had been a Monday, a very sleepless Monday when she'd stayed over. When she'd fallen asleep next to him, her breathing even, chest moving up and down steadily, he'd just watched her. Just laid there all night and watched her.

He didn't tell her that, won't ever tell her that because Massie Block isn't the kind of girl who wants a declaration of love from him. If it was Derrick doing the declaring then things would be entirely different.

Derrick still doesn't speak to her. He doesn't speak to Kemp either, because apparently his best friend's betrayal is too much to forgive. He wants to shout and punch and kick and scream at Derrick, tell him Massie wasn't just one of many. Massie was one, his only one, the only one that had meant something.

But in a way, in a purely selfish Kemp Hurley kind of way, he's a little pleased that Derrick hasn't forgiven Massie. That way, he still has a chance.

Massie's broken. She still has the lipstick, not ruby like it once was, but just as perfectly applied in shades of pinks, deep purples, browns. She still has the clothes and the shoes and the purses, the glossy hair, the perfect skin. But she's still broken, Kemp can see.

He wishes more than anything that he couldn't.

The bitchiness has gone. She can't pull off her act quite like she used to, and every time she attempts to send him a death glare across the courtyard at school, she fails, and her amber eyes look sadder than she'll ever know.

Kemp won't tell her. He doesn't want her to know.

* * *

He sits at the bar every Monday night. He sits at the bar every night in actual fact, but on a Monday, he sits longer, makes his drink stiffer, dresses better, wears more cologne. It was a Monday night the last time he spoke to her in the bar downstairs. Mondays mean more than just the beginning of the week.

He's almost pressed the call button on his cell fifty-seven times. Almost doesn't make the dial tone though, and so fifty-seven times he's dropped the phone on the bar, breathing deep enough to feel a little dizzy so that he doesn't have to remember the lump in his throat.

None of them are happy. Kemp Hurley didn't like noticing the others around him. It was easier when he only noticed himself. Dylan had to choose Massie over Claire. Todd got mad. Dylan got upset. They broke up.

Dylan's broken.

Derrick can't choose Massie and he can't choose Kemp. He can't choose Dylan because she's Massie's best friend, and as angry as he is, he can't do the same thing she did to him. Can't choose the best friend. He has to choose Claire.

So Derrick's broken too.

Massie wants Derrick. She can't choose him because he's not available anymore. Because she made a mistake being with Kemp and lost him. She wants Dylan, but she hasn't got her, not really, because Dylan's consumed with trying to win back Todd and Todd's not available either.

Kemp wants Massie. He can't have her because she wants Derrick and Derrick wants Dylan, who wants Todd, who wants normality again. None of this was ever normal.

Feelings got in the way.

His head hurts from thinking. Or maybe it's the liquor. Either way, Kemp sinks another large amount of the piercing stuff and slams the glass on the sideboard, shutting the door just as hard in his way out.

* * *

Massie hates Mondays. She hates them because they're the start of the week, the start of Dylan's stolen glances at Todd during Math and Chemistry, the start of her new diet, the start of the silence she shares with Kemp.

It's been nearly a month. The weather's gotten warmer, her skirts have gotten shorter and her jackets have gotten lighter. Her emptiness has only gotten deeper.

She's walked to that hotel bar every night since that first sleepless Monday. She's walked as far as the door every time, seen him there with a glass of whisky, maybe tequila, sometimes vodka, and turned, bolted as fast as she can so that he never sees her.

Tonight won't differ.

And she won't tell him. She suspects he cares too much for her feelings to get tangled up in his now.

That's when it gets complicated beyond belief.

She paints her toenails every Monday. The rest of the week, she makes sure that they're free of polish because there seems something unnecessary about having them coloured the entire week. Mondays are enough.

Dylan used to paint them for her. Her mind is a little absent nowadays though, and she tends to knock the brush against Massie's skin.

Massie Block hates a mess.

Shame that her life's become one.

Derrick spends some time with some whore from the soccer team. So Massie fingers her hair in front of the mirror, wonders whether anyone would notice if she got it cut, got more layers perhaps, added a little colour.

Dylan had told her not to. That she had the shiniest, prettiest hair, and that it would be a crime to change it. If that really is the case, Massie wonders why everyone favours Dylan's auburn curls over hers.

* * *

The days are a little longer, the sun not fading for a while after dinner. Kemp's not sure which he prefers, because longer, darker nights seem to hide everything so much better.

But when he sees a flash of shiny brown reflecting off the light from the doorway leading outside, when he sees lipstick and porcelain skin he suddenly knows why lighter nights are better.

"Massie wait." He shouts, almost knocking over the stool he'd been sat on to get to her. She doesn't stop though, just starts running, hair blowing out behind her, red coat flapping in the breeze, and she looks just like the devil woman.

He'd let her be his devil woman any day.

"Massie!" He shouts again. "Would you just stop!"

He has to run faster to catch her, and he makes a note to thank his soccer coach for making him run laps so often, and when he finally manages to grab her arm, he's shocked by her strength as she tries to free himself from his grasp.

"Let go of me." She spits, twisting until she hurts herself.

"Why didn't you come in?" He asks.

"I never come in."

The words have left her mouth before she can even realise, and it's only when Kemp drops her arm that she figures her legs wouldn't take her anywhere no matter how much she willed them.

"Do you…"

"Just forget it." She says quickly. "I've got stuff to do."

"Like what?"

He raises and eyebrow and she huffs that he can even be just the slightest bit cocky in their situation.

She's kind of glad in a way though, because if he was anything else, she wouldn't know what to do.

Massie shrugs and he shakes his head a little, smirking.

"You've got nothing to do Massie, you've got nowhere to go and nobody to go to."

"You think it's funny? I've lost my boyfriend, and most of my best friend because of you."

"You lost most of Dylan the day she and Lyons got together. A long time ago." He replies flatly. "And come to think of it, same goes for Derrick."

"I hate you." She spits coldly, walking off a little too slowly for him not to keep up.

Kemp only shrugs. "You don't hate me. You wouldn't kiss me like you do if you hated me."

"Did." Massie says quickly. "And for the record, that was just a half-ass attempt. You don't warrant my full attention."

"Really?"

"Really." She confirms, as if trying to convince herself. Convincing herself of anything has become difficult these days.

"Well contrary to your opinion, I definitely think I warrant your full attention. Nobody else will take it."

He's right. He's right and she hates him for it, hates herself for it, hates everyone for it. But she only turns, the red devil coat fanning out behind her in the night breeze as she walks away without a backward glance.

Kemp shuts his eyes and silently curses. He curses himself and he curses Dylan and he curses Derrick. Never Massie. None of this is her fault.

* * *

She cries. Just lays there on her bed and cries, her beautiful silk pillows a mess of mascara and lipstick, eyeliner and tears. Sometimes Inez or one of the other maids come in, knock, ask her if she's alright, whether she'd like a cup of tea, perhaps some hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, some of those caramel swirl cookies she loves so much.

None of the people that enter her room are her parents. They're not Dylan, not Derrick, not Kemp, never Kemp.

And Massie always just shakes her head, no, because if she eats those, if she drinks the hot chocolate, then she's as bad as Claire Lyons and her love for sugar. Maybe that's not a bad thing because, after all, Claire has Derrick now.

Her dress is crumpled. It's creased, in desperate need of pressing, but she just lays there in it, curled up in a ball, her red coat still covering her bare arms, her shoes still on her feet, hurting, pinching at the toe, yet Massie doesn't take them off.

She knows she looks tragic, looks like her world has just crashed down around her, looks like she actually _needs_ someone. Needs Kemp.

She won't admit that she does.

"Massie."

His voice is so quiet it's almost not there. But Massie hears. She knows he's come to comfort her, because she knows he knows she's broken. And she wants to crack a small smile, if just to confirm things, because it's all she's wanted.

But she doesn't, instead, just lays there, hands fingering the delicate beads of a scatter cushion that had bared the brunt of her mascara waterfall as he stands in the doorway unsure.

He sits down beside her eventually, only stares, never places a hand on her, never smoothes her hair, and she silently wills him to hold her, because she thinks that any minute, she might actually break, and then that would be the end.

She doesn't even know exactly why she's crying now. It's not Derrick, not Dylan, not her parents. And then she thinks it might be that she's crying for Kemp, the only person who's ever understood her, the only person who's ever accepted her, because if she doesn't have him, she's more alone that she'd thought possible.

He places a hand on her then, softly, gently, like he's afraid he'll damage her. And she gets those shivers through her body, the ones she'd never felt with Derrick, the ones she'd always wanted to feel with Derrick, and his other hand stays rooted by his side.

She thinks he's not sure what to do, he's nervous. He is.

So Massie just lifts her head a little, cranes her neck ever-so-slightly as her eyes look up at him, and he's staring at her. Just staring.

She nods because she needs to get out of this house and out of this dress and nowhere and no one sounds more comforting than Kemp Hurley and his room. Green eyes flicker to the window then back to her. Lips part, voice hoarse but soft.

"The car's outside."


End file.
